Scythe the Requiem
by Celestia Craven
Summary: When Harry finds himself in the middle of the Wastelands, Vash saves him and Harry starts calling himself 'Scythe the Requiem', who earns a million-dollar bounty because of the major property damage that he and Vash seem to always cause. But when you...


**Story** : Scythe the Requiem

**Disclaimer** : I don't own _Harry Potter_ or _Trigun_.

**Author** : ChocolateCherryGenesis

**Written** : Nov. 29-30. 2011

**Published** : Saturday, March 31, 2012

**Summary** : When Harry finds himself in the middle of the Wastelands, Vash saves him and Harry starts calling himself 'Scythe the Requiem', who earns a million-dollar bounty because of the major property damage that he and Vash seem to always cause. But when you add wizards and alternate dimensions to the story, things are a little more complicated than it might seem at first glance!

**Author's Note** : I hope you enjoy! Though, be warned, I've only watched a little _Trigun_. Some of it looks really cute, though. Love and peace! XD Anyway, I'm writing this to be only a few chapters long, so don't expect an epic-length story. This story will feature Family, Humor, and it'll probably have a lot of bashing on some characters, and some action too. Just so you know what to expect. ^_^

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><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

The $$10,000,000,000 Man

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><p>Why do you assume that I am weak . . . ? Even the strange and the unwanted are strong. More than that! The strange and unwanted have to be even <em>stronger<em> than normal folk, because they could not survive any other way . . .

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><p>A man sat on the edge of a high rooftop, calmly looking outward on the small town below and further out to the desert surrounding it. His rented apartment was just a floor below, but the man often easily climbed out the window and flipped himself onto the roof to see the sky. His blue eyes were covered by a pair of circular, orange-tinted sunglasses, and he wore a great red coat.<p>

His name was Vash the Stampede. The only person alive with a ten billion double-dollar reward. With a light sigh, Vash re-entered his room via perilous - supposedly - window, and walked out of the room after picking up a suitcase.

After all, Vash wasn't one to stay in one place for too long. His incredibly spiky hair and it's owner left the room, quite possibly never to return. That was his way. Vash never stayed for long.

Vash walked out of the smallish town, not bothering to rent a chocobo (A/N: Couldn't resist! What else do you call huge, people-carrying birdies? _Final Fantasy_ thing, if you didn't know) or a vehicle. While others were completely dependent on such things, Vash could walk across a desert with nothing but his own wits - and a lot of food, hopefully. And water. And other essentials. But he didn't need lots of other stuff like most travelers.

The world that Vash lived in was covered with sand. Only special machines made conditions bearable, at times, which were created by Ancient Technology. So, in the middle of the desert, it wasn't often that Vash came across anything other than said sand.

A week after he left the small town, he saw the top of a large blue sheet, sand from the wind covering some of it. It was pitched like a tent, with little openings at the high ends to allow air in, supposedly. Out of curiosity, Vash bent down and looked inside the make-shift shelter. He knew that it could be a trap from some robbers or such, but really, to set a trap this unremarkable in the middle of nowhere . . . ? Not very probable. To his surprise, someone had dug a large, vaguely rectangular-shaped hole in the ground under the 'roof'.

Vash's eyes immediately zeroed in on it's sole occupant. A bundle of white sheets held a slightly shaking bundle. Vash couldn't fit in the small shelter made for one, so he frowned and lightly pulled off the top of the sheet.

He gasped, and his sharp blue eyes widened under his orange-tinted sunglasses as he saw the top of a wild mop of black hair. It's pale and shaking owner was young. A kid. Nine years old, tops! He was thin - _far_ _too thin_ - and was still shaking in his sleep.

Vash pulled the boy out of the tent and into his lap, coaxing some water into the boy's mouth. With a light swallow, the boy curled into the warm lap like a happy cat. His shaking lessened, and he fell into a much more restful sleep.

Vash smiled slightly. "Now, I _do_ wonder who you are," Vash said. "It's a full week's walk from anywhere from here, and even in a truck it'd take at least three or four days. Hmm. Oh well! I'll ask you later, kid!" He grinned widely, back into his happy mood.

He walked over to the tent and looked for anything else. Unfortunately, the only things there were the sheets and a leather sack, holding a few sets of journals.

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Vash looked toward his unconscious traveling companion for the last three days and sighed lightly. Whoever it was had too many scars for a child, as seen when they came across a small well and Vash washed the sand-filled shirt of the boy's. The shirt was much too large, too.

Vash had put the boy's many sheets to good use and wrapped him up in two of them to keep the heat off during the day and to keep him warm during the night. Vash carried the boy propped up on his left shoulder while carrying his mysterious rectangular-shaped case in his right hand. The boy's leather sack hung off his right shoulder.

Every once in a while, the boy would flinch at a movement, only making Vash's assumptions more valid. Someone had hurt the kid. Badly.

But the kid appeared to be - relatively - okay. He woke up every couple of days for a few minutes and was starting to regain some of his health, though his face remained rather pale. He also seemed very attached to Vash - as said ten million double dollar man could attest to after having to actually _pry_ the kid off him while they both rested during the day for Vash to walk during the night.

Finally, the kid stirred and looked up at Vash's face as he felt a constant side-to-side movement that he knew meant being carried. Vash's sharp blue eyes were looking straight ahead into the distance even through the dark, his sunglasses just adding another gleam into his eyes. His eyes looked downwards, though his head didn't move.

His eyes didn't change their serious look, though he gave a slight smile. "Hey, kid. You okay?"

The boy blinked. "Oh. I'm fine, sir," He said. His emerald-colored eyes looked at Vash a second more, before flicking around him in practiced movements. Ahead, he could see a small caravan of wagons in the strange desert. "Um . . . What's that?" He asked.

Vash's eyes widened. "You can see that?"

Yeah," The boy said. He winced slightly. "I can see better in the dark than the light," He then mumbled to himself, unaware of Vash's superior sense of hearing. ". . . I think it was all the time I spent in the cupboard playing with the spiders . . ."

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_Two Years Ago_

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But Harry wasn't uneducated by any measure. Thankfully, Petunia was so deep in denial that not only was her only child _not_ a stupid, spoiled brat, he was a 'darling, emotional, caring genius' - . . . or so she claimed.

Which meant that Dudley supposedly needed books to read. When he first entered school in Kindergarten, Petunia bought many, many books. Classic literature, beginner readers, how-to books, a calligraphy kit, textbooks, and much, much more.

However, Dudley threw a royal fit when any such 'educational' material was closer than five yards. And thus, Petunia threw the books into an old trunk and threw the old trunk into the attic, saying 'I mustn't allow my poor Dudley's sensitive mind to feel inferior just because he can't use this incredibly hard material yet' and promptly forgot about it.

But Harry didn't forget.

Harry snuck into the attic often while Aunt Petunia was out. She went on errands on Tuesdays and Thursdays, she had a Ladies' Club meeting on Wednesdays, and she went out to dinner on Fridays with the rest of her unpleasant family. She was only there on Mondays, usually.

And so he threw himself into the only hobby he had. Learning. History was interesting, knowing that there had been great people who were treated _just like Harry_ who had also been looked down upon before they'd showed the entire world for all time how they'd earned respect.

Math was difficult, since it was so complex. Thank you, interactive computer games from Petunia to Dudley.

Reading was hard, but Petunia had went through the trouble of buying some fancy electronic gizmo that spoke when you put a weird pencil to a word. The classics with orphans like himself were appreciated, too.

Writing was just as hard at first, but Harry was soon taken by the thought of the practice sheets in the calligraphy kit. After he'd properly figured out his pencil and pen skills - after many hours of practice and around eight months of effort - he'd started on the many quills and pens found in the kit. For once, Harry was glad that Dudley was so wasteful, or else Petunia would have never ever bought _three sets_ of the same kit.

However, Harry thought that he'd eventually run out unless he only wrote important things. Within the kit, he took the old fashioned leather 'covers' with many holes in the sides and slid in most of the paper, leaving only about twenty sheets out while binding almost a full hundred in the book.

Harry used loose-leaf paper to practice with the old-fashioned pen at first, before he started. On the first page, he wrote a slightly shaky _Harry Potter's Journal _in cursive - which he'd immediately learned when he had found the tip in the manual that said that it was best to write in it.

On the page after, he left it blank, wanting to put a sketch of himself there when he'd learned to draw. On the third page, however, he began writing.

_My name is Harry James Potter. Though, my relatives call me 'Freak'._

After almost a full twenty minutes on those words alone, Harry carefully continued.

_I'm seven years old, now. My birthday is on July the Thirtieth. I love learning from old books that none of the Dursleys ever bother reading. There are few things that I hate, but I definitely seriously dislike the Dursley family. It's a mutual feeling, I assure you, though they actually _do _hate me. I have few dreams in life._

_I'm not allowed outside often, so I don't really know what Dudley means when he says most things. The only thing I really know about the Outside World come from books. Many of them are Classics, so much information is outdated, though there are a few modern books that I've found, as well as reading Dudley's comic books._

_There are a few facts about me that you ought to know. First, I've found that since I read much more than most children of my age, I know a great deal more book-smarts than most. Second, there's a reason I read so much. I have nothing else to do. I'm forbidden from leaving the house, and the Dursleys will lock me away if I dare ask them even the smallest of trivial questions._

_Third, I'm much more observant and intelligent than they will ever realize._

After spending almost an hour writing only that - each paragraph taking a full page and the last having some nice dramatic effect as only one sentence was written there - he quickly hid his tools and again moved downstairs into his cupboard, waiting for Uncle Vernon and the rest of the Dursleys to arrive home so they could leave again in the morning only thirteen hours away.

Only thirteen hours to go . . .

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_Three Days Ago_

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Harry soon started learning how to draw. Like he'd planned, he left a small sketch of himself in the second page, putting another one in every year on his birthday.

The nine-year-old Harry had been hiding in the linen closet - even smaller than the cupboard - after he heard Uncle Vernon become much angrier than usual. Vernon was yelling about the 'freak' - Harry, of course - and his 'freakishness' - meaning the strange occurrences that were _always_ Harry's fault, even though Harry thought it was impossible for himself to be able to supposedly 'jinx' Dudley's test results.

Personally, Harry thought that there was no cure for stupid and that the Dursley family shouldn't live in denial.

Which Inner Harry remarked - _Wasn't just a river in Egypt._

But, of course Harry could never say that out loud. The Dursleys didn't appreciate his wit nearly as much as his Inner Self did. Harry was quite sure that he wasn't one hundred percent sane, but he figured that he was incredibly well-adjusted for any child who barely left his home.

The Dursley family had many rules. They were unspoken rules, of course, so Harry and your narrator won't bother you with them all, but the boy had already numbered them into a full list a long, long time ago.

_Dursley Rule #2 - Dudley can do no wrong._

Meaning that Dudley had _obviously _aced his test and it must be a mistake or something that he got a thirty-two percent. Harry's Inner Voice commented, _Really! He would have done better just randomly guessing! After all, it's multiple choice! with only_ _three answers per question, he should have gotten a thirty-three percent_! This rule came right after the first.

_Dursley Rule #1 - It's always the Freak's fault._

There were many other rules.

_Dursley Rule #7 - The Freak doesn't really exist. He is not allowed outside for anything except chores._

This meant that Harry had no official schooling. No friends. Nothing. He hadn't left the Dursley house in over _three years_. And that had just been for a shot so that the 'freak wouldn't give us all a nasty disease!' and such.

THUMP!

Harry jerked as he felt the door opening.

"Where's the freak?" Vernon asked in a rage.

Harry shrunk backwards even more in his pile of sheets.

Vernon spotted the lump. "Found you!" He shouted.

Harry flinched as Vernon reached for him, before something strange flowed through him. _I wish I wasn't here! I wish I wasn't here! _Harry thought frantically.

And his wish was granted.

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_Present Time_

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Harry woke up in a large desert. No matter how far he walked, he just couldn't see any civilization. Morbidly realizing the situation faster than most other naive people, Harry popped a tent at night, using the sheets that something had thoughtfully brought along from the linen closet. He dug a small pit, covered the scorching sand with sheets, put up a top, and had some rest.

But it'd been too long since his last meal. When he fell asleep one day, he just didn't wake up again. He didn't die, as most would have, because his magic was re-routing itself through his digestive system.

Much later, he opened his eyes for a second, and then fell back to sleep. This happened many times, but he actually woke up days later.

He felt a side-to-side movement that he was familiar with. Uncle Vernon often picked him up like a sack of potatoes and carried him straight to his cupboard. But this wasn't Uncle Vernon's hold, which was stinky, fat, and uncomfortable. Instead, he felt thinner, muscular arms under his bottom, and his head was resting comfortably near the neck of the person who was holding him. Unlike Vernon's unsure footing due to his weight, this person had a sure gait, a firm but slight '_clink, clink'_ noise breaking through the silence with each step.

Harry shifted slightly from where he was bundled up, looking at whoever was carrying him. To his shock, he met sharp blue eyes behind strange, circular, orange-tinted sunglasses. The man smiled slightly, reassuring Harry. "Hey, kid. Are you okay?" He asked.

Harry answered. "I'm fine, sir," He said. The looked around slightly, trying not to wiggle too much, because the man might drop him. He caught sight of a caravan off into the distant darkness. "Um . . . What's that?" He asked.

The man's eyes widened slightly. "You can see that?" He asked.

"Yeah," Harry winced slightly. _Idiot! You should've kept quiet! _"I can see better in the dark than the light," Harry explained. Then he continued, mumbling so the man couldn't hear. ". . . I think it was all the time I spent in the cupboard playing with the spiders . . ."

The man blinked, before smiling. "My name is Vash! What's yours?"

"Harry," He replied. "Harry James Potter. I wish Harry was short for Hadrian or some other cool name, like Vash, but unfortunately it's not," Harry said. He figured it didn't really matter, since he was quite sure that he'd gone completely bonkers, either from his life at the Dursleys, or from the many days under the desert sun.

It didn't matter, since the person in front of him couldn't possibly really exist.

Vash smiled slightly. "Why don't you just make one up for yourself, then?"

"Good idea," Harry said.

Then they both kept a friendly silence as they arrived at the caravan. Harry and Vash both felt their sixth sense screaming out to them, so they both tried to move away as they caught a great deal of movement within the camp.

Harry went one way, and Vash the other, meaning that they both fell to the ground. And also meaning that they were easily caught.

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A moment later, both were tied up and stuffed in a crate, and the caravan of slavers continued it's journey.

Harry turned to Vash apologetically. "I'm sorry. I tried to jump off and drag you to the left . . ." He trailed off. "Well. I guess it didn't work like planned."

Vash smiled widely. "Don't worry about it. I'm just impressed that you sensed them."

"Experience," Harry explained shortly.

Vash shifted slightly. ". . . Well. I'm not sure if that's good or not, but the fact remains that we need to escape."

Harry sighed. "Yep."

And then they both stood up, then stared at each other in disbelief as the rope that had been securely tied around them both lay in a bundle on the ground.

Vash was the first to speak. ". . . That's pretty talented."

"Ditto," Harry said. "You got a plan?"

"Not really," Vash answered.

Harry smiled. "I'm really starting to like you."

"Same here," Vash replied.

They both made their way to the edge of a large crate, holding the rope to make it seem as if they were still tied up. Then, at the count of three, they both screamed.

"HELP! HELP! HELP! _SNAAAKE_! IT'S GOING TO **EATS** US!" Harry shouted, not bothering about grammar and that fact that it was 'eat' and not 'eats'.

Vash shrieked. "A RATTLER! IT'S GOING TO KILL US!"

"HEEEEEEEEEEEEEELP!" They chorused

After a brave member of the slave caravan opened the crate (read: he was . . . '_persuaded'_ . . . by the boss to open the crate and save their valuable merchandise) Vash and Harry both jumped out and disappeared.

Behind the unlucky opener of the crate and the boss that persuaded him to open said crate, two minions suddenly froze in place, their heads hanging down slightly, before inching off.

The boss turned to them. "What are you doing?"

"Bathroom break!" The two chorused in slightly squeaky voices.

"Oh," The boss said, before spinning and shooting at them.

The two that were supposedly going for a bathroom break dropped to the floor unconscious as Vash and Harry sprinted off, their ruse of the people they had knocked unconscious before using as a cover gone.

The boss growled. "Search for them!"

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Harry and Vash sat resting behind a rock formation a short distance from the camp, breathing deeply.

Then, they heard another random minion walking near. Before the minion could do anything, Harry had confiscated the gun and Vash had pointed his own at the man.

"For the sake of those you have to return to," Vash said. "Don't make a noise."

The minion stubbornly argued. "I don't got friends."

Vash blinked. "Kids?"

"Nope."

"A wife?"

"I'm too ugly."

". . . A pet?" Vash asked, though this time it was flat and more like a statement.

"Animals run when they see me."

Vash sweat-dropped. "That's pretty pathetic."

The minion replied sarcastically. "_You're_ telling _me_."

Harry interrupted the two. "Anyway, the point it that we really have no reason for you to shout for backup. You see, we're just two people. In the middle of the desert. With all our supplies gone. We won't last a _day_ out here."

The man pondered. ". . . You _do_ have a point."

"Besides," Harry continued. "Who's to say that you haven't just had a normal day of looking and not finding anything. You won't get in trouble. _We're_ not going to rat you out, after all."

"Hm . . ."

"And besides," Harry said, smiling widely but a threat somehow being apparent. "I know of a lot of things worse than a mere _bullet_," Harry said.

"Like what?" The minion asked, once again stubbornly sticking his chin in the air.

Harry began listing off many cruel, painful, and unusual tortures for ten minutes straight. Vash was looking at him with awe (and some slight fear) while the minion had fallen to the ground in tears.

"You gonna cooperate?" Harry asked.

The minion nodded his head wildly.

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Later, both Vash and Harry had freed the other victims of the caravan and were traveling to the next town with style in their own wagon and tent.

Vash was driving, while Harry was sitting in the passenger's seat, relaxed and at ease.

Vash took a peek at his young companion. He'd tried to leave the kid at the nearest town, but the kid had absolutely refused. According to him, he had a Life Debt to Vash and he could not leave until he had fulfilled it.

Vash smiled. "Have you come up with your nickname yet?"

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_Five Years Later_

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Vash the Stampede was the fear of the entire world. Everyone knew of the man with the ten billion double dollars on his head, but the man that had also never killed. Scythe the Requiem was the second-most fear. Vash's partner who had appeared a year ago, he had a full million on his head, the second-most high bounty.

Right now, both were calmly walking through the desert.

Vash's appearance, with his serious eyes, orange sunglasses, and red coat, caught the attention of the townspeople. They also caught sight of a younger man. In fact, he looked like a young teen.

Scythe the Requiem wore black pants tucked into high and thick black boots with many sturdy buckles. He wore many belts, criss-crossing since they hung down at his sides. His shirt was a simple black tee, which was covered by a gray vest. Over it all, a large, heavy, black, leather coat hung. Harry also wore the same circular glasses as his mentor and partner, though in plain black.

Over his midnight-black hair, a hat sat. It had a circular brim, with a triangle cut out of it above his right eye and a circular silver ring dangling from the edge of the triangle. He wore many guns and blades, though all of them were somehow hidden so that none who searched him could ever find any besides his main four guns that hung right off his belt.

He was slightly short, but that didn't change how dangerous he seemed.

Scythe's emerald eyes scanned the town. "Do you think the rumors were true?" He asked with a deep voice that strangely seemed to suit him.

Vash replied. "I don't know."

Scythe sighed. "Fine. Let's just find whoever we have to find, scare him, save the village, and then leave."

Vash sweat-dropped. "You _really_ didn't want to wake up early, did you?"

Scythe gave Vash a Look. "_Ya _**_think_**_?"_ He said sarcastically. He rolled his eyes before smiling. "Dude, morning are _evil!"_

"Whatever you say," Vash said, smiling.

Scythe glared. "I _loathe_ you."

"I know," Vash said, smiling at their banter.

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><p><em>To Be Continued<em>

_Please Review_


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